


Hole in the Wall

by Five_star_hellhole



Category: Cassandra Palmer Series - Karen Chance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 21:17:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13726158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Five_star_hellhole/pseuds/Five_star_hellhole
Summary: John takes a break and gets some pizza. Prior to Hunt the Moon.





	Hole in the Wall

John sat down heavily into the restaurant booth, an observer would be tempted to think his legs had collapsed under him with the amount of force he hit the cracked fake leather with. They would not be too far off, he thought tiredly. He leaned back and rested against the faded wallpaper and looked out the front window of the little pizza shop. He had found this on a run a few weeks ago and had snuck off once or twice to get a slice when there was a moment of calm. With the ways things were going, even he needed comfort food every now and again.

He flagged down the waitress and ordered his usually: two slices of the day’s special and some Foster’s. To be honest that was one of the reason he had even ducked his head in the first time, the advertisement for one of the few beers he could stand to drink in the Las Vegas heat that also had a touch of home in it. That little bit of reminiscence allowed him to keep the only other desert he had ever know farther from his mind. There they didn’t have Foster’s, beer was a “commoners” drink and not fit to be served in his father’s home. John rolled his eyes, his father was a pretentious snob.

He made sure to pause to enjoy the first sip as he finished that thought.

He didn’t have to wait long before the waitress dropped off his pizza and he began to dig in. The other reason he liked this particular greasy hole in the wall was the *lack* of service. He was overly tired of the American need to make chitchat and ask questions they didn’t want real answers to. Brits may be polite but Americans were incessantly friendly if they thought they could benefit from it.... Perhaps he was just being cynically, either way in this little place they didn’t ask questions, they didn’t want to know how you were doing, and god knows they didn’t give a damn about what you looked like. Which was very good considering, more often than not, he was sweat covered and in the ripped clothes he went jogging in.

John sprinkled another few tablespoons of red pepper flakes on the other pizza slice, already nearly done with the first one. He could feel his shoulders unknotting slightly as he relaxed. When he hit the crust of the first slice he decided to get up and wander over to the jukebox. As he scrolled through its offerings, chewing thoughtfully on the last mouthful of crust, he found himself browsing its selection of country songs. He was rather fond of the country music from the mid century, when rock and roll was beginning to influence it, but rarely had the opportunity to listen. But here? Here he liked to stay long enough for a song or two while he ate before heading back. He didn’t like to be gone long, only allowing himself an hour of respite before returning to Dante’s. If he was gone longer, and wasn’t training, he found himself obsessively checking the locator charm on Cassie to make sure she was where he left her and that the connection was still humming along strong and healthy.

He found himself bypasssing the happier songs as they weren’t what he needed right now. He snorted derisively, things had to be bad when some country songs were too “happy” for your life. Still...

He decided, for his own morbid amusement, to play “Big Bad John” by Jimmy Dean. He might not always have been named as such, but damn if it didn’t fit him. With that selected, he returned to his table and began munching on his last piece. By the time the song finished he was just draining the last of his beer. He paid his bill and threw a five on the table for tip and got up to leave but stopped short when he found a second quarter hanging about in a pocket. He rolled it thoughtfully in his fingers before strolling back to the jukebox.

He didn’t have to scroll long, he knew exactly what he wanted to play. He selected the song and with a sardonic twist of his lips he headed out, ignoring the raised eyebrow of the waitress behind the bar as the first lines began to play. He was still smiling slightly as he opened the door thinking of blue eyes and blonde curls.

The sound of Marty Robbins singing “Ruby Ann” followed him into the parking lot as he turned to walk back towards the hotel. As he listened to the lyrics all he could think was that a man could dream. His mind kept humming along to that tune long after he left to get back to Cassie.

”... _your money can't buy if your power can't hold, You can't romance your fame. Ruby Ann took the hand of this poor, poor man, Ain't true love a funny thing_...”


End file.
